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governor right out of the water, and ever since he’s been looking for a way to fuck us. So now, nine days before the election, he’s got that slug of a sheriff stomping around and making noise about all this so Dagnolo can come off like some man-of-the-people giant-killer. I mean, there’s no mystery to all this, folks.”
    Brenna scribbled some notes and set down her pen. “Okay, slow down. Let’s deal with what happened here first.”
    â€œLook, Phil,” Ford said, “we’re all pretty much on edge here. Let’s let Brenna get the information she needs right now and save the editorializing for some other time.” He ran a finger around the lip of his glass, creating the unmistakable song of fine crystal, then took a deep breath.
    â€œMy parents have been married for forty-eight years, Brenna. Married right out there in that gazebo, as a matter of fact, and they’d be the first to tell you it wasn’t a perfect union. You probably know Mother didn’t go with him to Harrisburg when he was governor.”
    â€œI remember the big media fuss,” she said.
    â€œMother said she wouldn’t live in that, quote, city without a soul, unquote, and she didn’t mind talking about it to any reporter who asked.”
    Brenna smiled, remembering Floss Underhill’s reputation for plain-spoken independence at a time when politicians’ wives were expected to behave like Jackie Kennedy.
    â€œBut if you watch them long enough, Brenna, even since Mother got sick, you’ll still catch them holding hands, walking together arm in arm, sharing some private laugh at the dinner table. We should all be so lucky.”
    Ford reached for his wife’s hand just as she reached for her tea glass. She offered him a vague smile instead. “I tell you all that not to create some fantasy love story, but to give you some context,” he said. The maid stepped quietly onto the patio, and Ford seemed to sense her presence behind him. “We’re fine, Lottie, thank you,” he said, waving her away.
    â€œWhen this disease began stealing my mother’s mind—and you could see it, bit by bit, over those first couple of years—my father reacted in a way I’m told is quite typical of Alzheimer’s spouses. Since he couldn’t control what was happening to her mind, he decided to control her body as best he could. He took the lead role in her care then, and that hasn’t changed.”
    Brenna was lost. “The point being?”
    â€œWe’re not ruling out any possibilities, that’s all. I’m convinced that Mother had a rare moment of clarity and realized what was happening to her. Believe me, if that was the case, suicide might seem pretty appealing. But I think we’re all familiar with the term ‘caregiver burnout.’ ”
    Brenna spoke without thinking. “Your father?”
    â€œA possibility, that’s all,” Ford said. “Mother hasn’t been sleeping. She’s been up at all hours. He’s been exhausted. He was there day and night—bathing, feeding, dressing, everything. Sometimes people in those situations just—” He snapped his fingers. “Of course, there’s no evidence to suggest that happened here. But I’m just trying to reconcile Mr. Chembergo’s statement with what we know happened. Dad was the last one with her.”
    Brenna swallowed hard. She knew the caregiver’s dilemma. Her mother was diagnosed the same week Brenna started work in the public defender’s office. During the next year, as she struggled to launch her career, she and her mother fell into a wounded silence. Brenna knew that her touch, once so tender, grew rougher as her mother’s condition eroded. Eventually, she couldn’t insert the catheter or roll her mother’s wasted body off the soiled bedclothes fast enough. Claire Kennedy knew that her disease was derailing her